Royal Australian Air Force
- Soon after arriving in Vietnam I saw an OV-10
Bronco. It was love at first sight and I was determined to get a ride
in one. Luckily my job as an information officer gave me the opportunity.
The ALO (Air Liaison Officer, pronounced "aye lo") assigned
to the division flew OV-10s so I tracked the unit down. It turned out
that the current commanding officer was Wing Commander Larrard, Royal
Australian Air Force. He quickly approved my flight on the condition
that I would come over and party with them the night before.

The next night I finished dinner
and bummed a ride over to the ALO. Larrard met me with a firm hand shake
and a cold can of Aussie lager. He introduced me around to other members
of his crew. We soon pulled up chairs, popped more cold ones, and talked.
I asked him all the usual questions regarding the operation and his
tour all the while he kept handing me fresh cans of beer. Finally conversation
moved on to the Bronco itself.

Photo: I contemplated the
OV-10. She looked like a P-38 from my father's war. I felt the little
boy in me imagining the exhilaration of a combat flight.

He loved the plane, "She's
a pilot's aircraft. Quick, agile, plenty of power. You love to be up
in her." A frustrated killer turned spotter, he realized the unused
capacity of the aircraft. "All they give me is Willy Peter (white
phosphorus) rockets for spotting. She's a great gun table, steady, lots
of T.O.T (time on target) and as I said, she's plenty powerful. They
could load me down and I could still do my mission. I'd love to have
a mini on her and get in there and mix it up with Charley. It's a pure
shame they won't let me. Waste of a great aircraft if you ask me."

With that I heard the sound
of another can top being pierced and another Swan being handed to me.
Good beer, ehh mate? Not like that Budweiser piss water you chaps
have to drink.

I'd held my own in college drinking
bouts but the Aussies were professionals. My dad had run into them in
Casablanca toward the end of WW11 and had been mightily impressed. "All
you had to do was run the bar rag under a Frog's nose and they'd get
high, but the Aussies, well they were another story. We're all sitting
around in a bar one night in the French area and one of the guys had
a fifth of bourbon we were passing around. An Aussie sergeant wandered
by and we offered him a taste. The bottle must have been two thirds
full. 'Don't mind if I do mates.' he said, then he tipped the bottle
back and damn near drank it all in one swallow, wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand, smacked his lips and said, 'Thanks, mates. Not
bad at all.' He walked away leaving all of us looking at the bottle
in amazement. You don't want to drink with those Aussies." His
wisdom was rattling around in my cranium but I was finding it more and
more difficult to locate. I began trying to nurse my drinks but Commander
Larrard would have none of it. "You can't bugger off now, mate,
we've still got a fair amount of beer to kill."

I hung on as best I could. Somewhere
along the line we all began to sing Waltzing Matilda rocking
back and forth with arms draped around each others shoulders. I struggled
to keep dinner inside my churning stomach and reason inside my head.
Both insisted on being free. The night ended with a toast or two to
Yank - Aussie friendship and my forced pledge that I had never tasted
better beer than Australian beer: not in Canada, not in Germany and
certainly not in Britain. In truth, by the end of the night, all beer
was starting to taste alike and I was coming to the sad conclusion that
I might never want to taste another one regardless of its nationality.

I have no idea how much sleep
I got that night. The tent kept spinning in opposition to the world's
rotation. My stomach growled and pitched like an angry sea. My head
throbbed, my feet and hands felt swollen and stiff. But the sun came
up and I felt compelled to rise to the challenge.

I cleared enough cobwebs from
my mind to locate my dopf kit and towel, step into my Ho Chi Minh flip
flops and aim my suffering body in the direction of the shower point.
For once the breath stealing chill of the water felt good. I let it
fall straight onto my noggin, the water massaging my temples, cooling
my fever. I finished the shower and then, razor in hand, I acknowledged
the grim face in the mirror. Thoughts of suicide were balanced against
the idea of living out the work day feeling the way I did. Suicide was
ahead on points going into the final round but I finally convinced myself
that all of this would pass. Plus, I really did not want to miss that
ride in the OV-10. I finished my shave and padded back to my hooch to
dress stepping, lightly for fear I would further bruise my aching brain.

The smell of breakfast pulled
me into the mess hall. I passed on the oatmeal and the S.O.S. and sought
the warm comfort of greasy bacon and eggs to pour oil onto my troubled
stomach waters. But though I was hungry I could not force the food down.
I sat and stared at my plate wondering what had happened to my appetite
between entering the mess and sitting down. I chewed on the edges of
my toast, the crunch of each bite echoing painfully in my ears. I knew
I had to eat something or my torture would continue unabated, but knowledge
was easier to obtain than cure.

I carefully selected my route
to the office tent, deliberately avoiding anyone I would either have
to salute or whose salute I would have to return. I was sure the sudden
lifting of my arm would jerk my stomach out of balance and bring about
a sudden and violent up chuck of epic proportions. I made it to the
tent unimpeded by military courtesy and sought the sanctuary of the
coffee pot. Thank God Colonel Vicienza was either in a staff meeting
or sleeping off his own "night before." The office could not
have contained two such hangovers simultaneously.

Willy and Wayne wandered in
and we worked for a while on selecting our sound bites for the show.
I was in no mood to write script and so I procrastinated, telling them
I would get back to the script before we left for Long Binh the next
day. Then I sent them off for more interviews while I wandered down
to the PX just so I could walk around and try and clear my head, by
now I had reached the point where aspirin and a cold Coke could be brought
into play and speed my recovery. I got both at the PX and then headed
back toward the mess hall for lunch. I was able to get the soup and
sandwich down and my tummy thanked me for not putting in more poison.

I returned to the tent so that
Specialist Huckaby could give me a lift to the ALO office. There I was
met by Larrard and his Aussie band. They were unbelievably chipper.
I tried to pretend that I had not been seriously wounded by the activities
of the previous night but I'm sure I detected a few winks and smirks
on their part. They knew I was hanging on, praying for the bell to save
me from the knockout punch. They fitted me up with a parachute, a shoulder
holster with a Smith and Wesson .38 and a flight helmet. The parachute
was a flat, lumpy sort of back pack. The bottom fourth of it rested
on my rump ending about three inches south of the gluteus maximus crease.
I tromped around feeling like a toddler with a load in a baggy diaper,
all the while Larrard and the sergeants briefed me on emergency measures.
They spent time explaining how you had to grip the ejection seat ring
and tug it free. I tired to imagine my willingly ejecting from a plane
and always came to the same conclusion that I would end up inside a
pilot-less aircraft trying to fly and land her rather than bailing out.
Larrard ended my internal debate by saying, "Don't worry mate,
if we do get in a bit of a fix I'll launch you before I go myself."
If those words were supposed to bring me comfort they failed.

We piled into their jeep and
began the ride toward the aircraft. I was easily able to suppress whatever
fears I harbored as I contemplated the OV-10. She looked like a P-38
from my father's war. I felt the little boy in me imagining the exhilaration
of a combat flight. I eagerly climbed into the back seat noting that
the second seat sat about a foot higher than the pilots. Then I waited
as the sergeant strapped me in. I listened intently to each instruction,
noted the maze of controls, located the black and yellow stripped ejection
seat ring and then squirmed a bit to settle the parachute into a comfortable
position. I remembered there was a red arrow on the fuselage marking
the plane's center of gravity and realized the arrow pointed directly
to where my hips were located. The cockpit was closed and Commander
Larrard's confident voice came through the earphones inside my flight
helmet. "She'll be a bit hot Lieutenant until we get airborne.
There's a vent you can move about but there's not much escape from this
sun."

I hadn't thought about such
things prior to asking for a flight. The huge greenhouse on the OV-10
was designed with mission, not comfort, in mind. The inside of the plane
had baked all morning as she sat on the flight line. The sun streamed
through the Plexiglas making a solar oven out of the cockpit. The sweat
poured out of me, trailing down the sides of my face, running down my
arms and legs, finding all the baggy places in my uniform to gather.
Meanwhile, Larrard was going through his check list, revving the engines
and talking with the tower. We taxied into position. He locked the brakes
and pushed the throttle forward for one last test, then released the
brakes and we began to roll, by now the heat was making things uncomfortable.
I fidgeted to make the parachute comfortable and found that it wasn't
to be. I might as well have been sitting on the bare metal seat itself
for all the cushioning affect the chute offered. Still, my excitement
reached a crescendo as we rolled toward the end of the strip, I watched
as our shadow raced along the ground after us, saw the nose tip up and
felt the power and speed of the plane. The angle of climb increased
and I was pushed back against the rear of the seat but I could now feel
the cooler air flowing into the area. We leveled off and I began to
admire the design of the aircraft. The wings were above and behind us
and the greenhouse bulged out over the fuselage. From the air the view
was spectacular, clear and unobstructed in all directions.

WE flew on straight and level
and then Larrard's voice came on again. "We'll be flying out to
our run here for a minute and then I'll start my first orbit."

I gave an "OK" back
as if I understood what was really going to happen. I imagined that
we would fly in straight lines following the boundaries of the division's
AO, or that we would fly in some huge, lazy circle. I had no idea of
orbits.

"Here we go Lieutenant."

With that I saw the left wing
tip drop and the plane turn until I was looking almost straight down.
My respect for the aircraft's design increased as I took in the incredible
size of the vista. We seemed to hang as straight as a sword, as if a
giant wire were attached to the top wing dangling us parallel to earth.
Once, twice, three times we orbited and then Larrard would snap her
back and we would fly straight for a few minutes until the wing would
drop again and we would begin another tight orbit. I soon became used
to the idea that I would not fall out and that I could move my head
in all directions and see even more. Larrard pointed out things he was
looking for: trails, bunkers, changes in the landscape from previous
missions, anything that might develop into intelligence of enemy activity
or, even better, a fire mission for artillery or a ground target for
a fighter bomber.

At first it was fascinating
and time moved quickly. But then the continual orbits began to wear
on me. The parachute had not grown any softer and the importance of
that "center of gravity" marker was finally coming into play.
During each orbit the G-forces went right through the center of gravity.
That meant they went right through me. At the beginning of each orbit
I felt myself being squeezed tighter against the bottom of my seat.
I grasped the sides of the seat with my hands and pushed up, lifting
my legs and my butt off of the metal but then I would have to sit down
again. Circulation was cut off and I began to feel the tingle of my
legs and butt "going to sleep." I looked at my watch and swore
the hands had not moved for the past half hour.

Photo: Wing Commander
Larrard, Royal Australian Air Force, at the controls of the Bronco.I tried to think of how to broach
the subject of mission length with Larrard. "Sir, how long do these
missions run?" We overlap on each end so that at least one ALO
is always in the air but the basic mission is three hours unless things
get hot; then you go till the mission's over or your out of fuel and
ammo."

Any enthusiasm I might have
had to get involved in a real combat mission ended with that thought.
I looked at my watch again and swore the hands had moved backwards.
The day was stretching toward eternity. My butt was turning into pancake
and the natural force of gravity was trying to locate my stomach and
bladder.

We reached the final orbit
on our line and began to work our way back toward Lai Khe following
the same path and the same pattern we had used on the way out. The heat,
the movement and the
G-force were beginning to win the uneven contest.
"Sir, what do I do if I have to blow lunch?"

"We keep a bag for that,
Lieutenant. Here you go."

I saw his hand reach back and
dangle a barf bag in front of me. I had no more grabbed it and brought
it to my area when the headphones began to crackle. "Sidewinder
4, this is Dauntless 6. I got fire from my front. Can you take a look?
Over."

I could hear faint sounds of
small arms fire in the background. I looked down but saw nothing on
the ground. The two voices, Larrard and the ground commander, calmly
exchanged information. I was amazed at the lack of emotion, just direct,
business like, straight forward exchanges of facts.

Before I had time to think about
it Larrard spotted his target on the ground. I sensed the right wing
come all the way over. All blue disappeared from my field of vision.
The nose of the craft sought a point on the ground and the plane bored
straight toward it. I felt the craft twist, a long smooth spiral. Sky
reentered my sight but the ground was racing up to meet us. My stomach
and other vital organs hung suspended inside my body cavity, that crazy
feeling you can get as you crest a small rise on a country road except
that this continued the length of our dive. I looked past Larrard's
head and could see the ground clearly. I spotted a few isolated figures,
men in jungle fatigues either lying on the ground or moving about hunched
over, all looking in the direction we were headed. A short distance
behind them was a slowly rising spiral of yellow smoke, marking their
position for Larrard. I heard a whoosh emerge from outside the
Bronco and suddenly saw two rockets trailing smoke and flame and heading
for a clump of trees. Just before they hit, the nose of the OV-10 suddenly
lifted and the earth disappeared from view. I was slammed back into
the seat and then felt the craft spin hard to my right. I could look
back and see the white smoke rising from the green trees as the Willy
Peter burned in place.

Larrard and the ground commander
were talking again. We went into a tight orbit, the plane seeming to
snap into various angles and flight lines. The two rockets made it easy
to spot the ground troops now. I could see the bursts of red tracer
from the American M-60 drawing a line a bit to the west and south of
the burning rockets. I heard "Roger, out." Through the head
phones, and looked up just in time to see the right wing once more flip
over my head. Again the sky disappeared, again my stomach floated, again
the earth raced toward me.

Larrard adjusted his point to
just where I had seen the tracer going. Then whoosh, no earth,
slammed against seat, tight spin, and snap, into another orbit.

The ground commander's voice
was back in my headset. Confirming the accuracy of Larrard's rockets.
A third voice came on announcing the cooperation of an artillery unit.
We moved away from the target and went into another orbit, Larrard's
eyes focused on the area we had marked. We hung around long enough to
watch the first rounds slam into the enemy area, and heard the adjustments
being made. Not much was needed. Seconds later the target was smothered
with red orange bursts and the dark gray smoke of artillery explosions.
We flew on to our next orbit.

Things had happened so fast,
I hadn't had time to be sick. I had been upside down, rolling over,
diving, climbing, spinning. My stomach had no idea where it was and
even less an idea of in which direction to push things in order to throw
up. I felt awful but I no longer felt nauseous. I guessed that was progress.

We continued our string of orbits
and then I heard the welcome voice of Lai Khe tower coordinating Larrard's
landing approach. The heat, nowhere near as bad as when we took off,
began to return to the cockpit. At last we rolled to a stop and the
canopy was rolled back. I was stuck to my seat almost unable to move.
My legs tingled from the lack of circulation and my uniform was damp
and shapeless. The same sergeant that had strapped me in was there to
help me out. I stood up, felt my legs wobble a bit, and then feeling
began to return.

I walked away glad to have the
whole thing behind me. I climbed into the back seat of the jeep and
did not turn and look longingly back at the Bronco. My Aussie friends
helped me out of the parachute and shoulder harness. I was whipped.
They offered another beer and I knew that this was the final test.
I accepted the challenge. If the flight had not turned my insides out
one more beer was not going to matter. I finished it up, thanked Larrard
and the sergeants, and began to walk back toward the office.

I was glad I had gone, but one
ride on the Bronco was enough for this cowboy.